


Enough of the déjà vu

by hwshipper



Series: The Chris 'Verse [7]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Casual Sex, M/M, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a request for '<em>an established-relationship fic where House actually tells Wilson to screw this dirty-little-secret/serial-women crap and either tell people he's in a committed relationship with House and live up to the commitment or get the bleep out of House's bed and don't come back.'</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bedawyn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bedawyn).



> Written as a thank-you to [](http://bedawyn.livejournal.com/profile)[**bedawyn**](http://bedawyn.livejournal.com/) for a donation to the [](http://community.livejournal.com/rsl_bday_drive/profile)[**rsl_bday_drive**](http://community.livejournal.com/rsl_bday_drive/).  
> **Beta:** the truly awesome [](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/profile)[**triedunture**](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/)

Thursday night, and House had just fixed himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his kitchen. He was taking it into the living room to slump in front of the game, when he heard a familiar knock at the door. As he was walking past anyway, he answered it.

There was Wilson, suitcase in hand. Lank hair, sheepish eyes, slumped shoulders.

"I have a strange sense of déjà vu," House said, looking Wilson up and down. "You split up with her?"

Wilson nodded, and his expression was so hangdog that House didn't say anything more, just stepped aside to let him in.

They spent the evening drinking beer and eating sandwiches. Wilson finished off the last of the peanut butter, meaning (House was quick to point out) he would have to buy another jar. Wilson didn't say anything about the breakup, and House resisted asking as they were guys, after all, and it was much more important to watch the game than start talking about stuff like that. And anyway there would be plenty of time to find out later on, after Wilson stopped looking so shell-shocked.

Wilson excused himself early to go to bed, and House stayed up to watch a kick-ass kung fu movie which started at midnight. His attention was only half on the movie, however, as he mused on Wilson's appearance on his doorstep.

Might this be the time Wilson actually stayed? Rationally, House told himself that this wasn't going to happen. They'd tried it before, it had never worked out. The familiar arrival at the door, the melancholy evening in, the brief period of cohabitation punctuated with arguments and pranks. The couple of days where Wilson had vanished to get utterly shitfaced (and worse; House had found Wilson sleeping in a gutter once, and although he'd looked fully dressed House had later discovered there was a distinct lack of any underwear under those jeans).

House had thought the pattern might have been broken after that bus crash had ended Wilson's last really serious relationship in a different way. But no. After Wilson had worked his way painfully through the stages of grief, and he and House had spent months and months rebuilding their friendship, their relationship, it had actually reinforced the pattern instead. It had given Wilson a martyr to the cause. Persuaded him that if Amber hadn't died, it would _definitely _have been different, definitely have lasted. Given him new certainty that he'd been doing the right thing.

There was no reason for Wilson breaking the habit of a lifetime now.

But annoyingly, House found himself hoping otherwise. Visions popped unasked for in his mind: himself and Wilson managing to live together for more than a few days at a time, Wilson finally giving up on finding the happy relationship with a women he was so sure was to be found out there somewhere...the elusive Mrs. James Wilson the fourth who would be different from all the rest...

Hope springing eternal in the human breast. House scowled at his pathetic fantasies and crushed a beer can in his fist.

He came to bed at three AM, sliding between the sheets as quietly as possible. However, it transpired that Wilson was only dozing.

"House," Wilson mumbled, turning over to nuzzle House's neck, and then clambering clumsily on top of him, kissing, rubbing. House hadn't expected this, not tonight, but had no objection to a little comfort sex. Wilson must be feeling more alone than he'd realized.

They moved together easily, each knowing well what the other liked after their many years of fucking. It wasn't exactly an erotic treat, but it seemed to give Wilson some peace and it certainly served to send House straight to sleep soon after.

As House flopped down on the pillow afterwards and drifted away, he wondered again at the back of his dulled mind if Wilson might actually stay this time.

 

* * *

  
The next morning, House woke to find the bedside clock informing him it was 10:00. House didn't worry about it; he'd diagnosed his last patient and handed her over to the tender ministrations of Thirteen, Taub and Kutner only the previous day. He figured he was due a nice light Friday rolling into a long weekend. He wasn't surprised to find Wilson gone, either; Wilson would doubtless have a round of meetings and appointments and would have wanted to be in work early. Messy breakup or no messy breakup.

House arrived at work and spent the remainder of the morning looking after his Nintendogs (which he was pursuing because it really seemed to irk Thirteen). He bowled along to Wilson's office as lunchtime approached, only to stop short inside the door. The light was off, the computer was off, and there was no sign Wilson was around. House poked around the desk: unopened mail from that morning. Wilson hadn't come into work at all.

He wandered back into the corridor and collared the next member of staff he came across, an oncology nurse. "Ahoy! Where's your glorious leader?"

The nurse muttered, "I heard he took the day off," and fled.

House stared after the vanishing nurse in surprise. The day off?--and on such short notice. It certainly hadn't been booked in advance--Wilson must have called in and requested it only that morning.

This was a bad sign. On past form, it meant Wilson was heading for a weekend bender in a strange part of town. It must have been a messy breakup after all.

House pulled out his cell and hit speed dial #1. It rolled over to voicemail. House left a short, sharp message: "Wilson, where the fuck are you? Call me."

* * *

  
The next few hours crawled by, as House made the mistake of going to see Cuddy to ask about Wilson's day off.

"The man hasn't had a day's vacation in almost a year," she said, eyeballing him across her desk. "Of course I wasn't going to say no. No, he didn't say what he was doing, and I didn't ask. And shouldn't you be doing clinic duty right now?"

House reluctantly saw a succession of vomiting patients with one eye while keeping the other fixed firmly on his cell phone.

Eventually the phone rang, and the man in the room at the time, who claimed not to have the flu ("It can't be the flu, I just know it's not." "It's the FLU, you moron.") never did get to argue his point further, as House seized the phone and left Exam Room One without so much as a backwards glance.

"Wilson," House said sharply into the receiver, striding across the foyer towards the elevator.

"House. Hey." Wilson sounded as if he was trying to sound upbeat. "Um, I've gone away for a day or two."

Fuck.

"I'll be back at work on Monday. See you then," Wilson added, and hung up smartly before House could reply, or initiate a phone tracking device. Not that House had such a gadget, although he often thought it would come in handy.

Well, nothing else for it. House abandoned clinic duty and the hospital, and headed home. He threw a few overnight things in a duffel bag, got on his motorcycle, and took off in pursuit.

* * *

  
House hadn't known Wilson for nigh on twenty years without having a good idea where he'd go and what he'd do. There were a couple of towns outside Princeton near enough to reach easily, but far away enough that he wasn't likely to get recognized by anyone he knew. He would get blasted out of his skull, crash in a cheap flophouse somewhere, and return to work after the weekend as if nothing had happened. House mentally tossed a coin and picked the place Wilson hadn't gone to last time.

_Last time._ God, he really didn't want to find Wilson in a gutter sans underwear again. He hoped Wilson wouldn't get as plastered this time around. And why the hell did people always assume it was Wilson constantly rescuing House from these crazy freaking messes, and never the other way around? Wilson was just too darn good at concealing these things.

The town was a few hours' drive away, but House was swift on the motorcycle. He got there in the early evening, found a halfway decent hotel and checked in. He had a burger in a nearby diner, and a drink in a nice-looking bar. As midnight approached, he left and set out to find Wilson.

House's strategy, perfected over several similar previous occasions over the course of time, was to go to The Worst Bar In Town (which wasn't quite written over the door, but might as well have been) and wait. Because Wilson would roll in there eventually. It wasn't hard to find; a small claustrophobic basement with a ratty pool table and a broken jukebox, inhabited by large fierce men brooding over bottles and the occasional stringy-looking chain-smoking woman. House pulled his jacket closely around him, got a beer and settled unobtrusively into a table against the far wall.

The table next to him was occupied by two biker-types with unkempt beards and long greasy hair, having a most unpleasant conversation about betting on some sort of fight. House couldn't be sure what they were talking about betting on, but it sounded like dog-fighting, or possibly cock-fighting. He drank and tried to tune them out.

In the early hours of the morning House's patience was rewarded, as Wilson came staggering down the stairs and into the bar. He was wearing jeans and a casual shirt which were very scruffy by his standards. He was moving slowly and awkwardly, concentrating where he put each foot; obviously extremely drunk. It might not just be alcohol he'd consumed, either; his eyes were glassy and vacant. Actually, there might be another reason altogether he was moving carefully, a physical one; House's eyes narrowed as he watched Wilson cross the room and head towards the bar. It had clearly been quite an evening.

House prepared to get up, but before he did, his attention was caught by one of the guys on the next table saying, "Look what just walked in the door. Pretty mouth, your kind of thing, ten o'clock."

"Not seen him before. Cute," rumbled the other one.

House froze rigid. They were looking at Wilson, who was now leaning on the bar, ordering a drink. His jeans were a snug fit and showed off his ass possibly too well.

"I could do that," opined the first.

"Then let's go," said the second, and they both stood up.

House looked sideways at them. Two big bears of men. Not the types you wanted to mess with. Both wearing dark glasses despite the darkness of the room. One had old, fading tattoos clearly visible on the backs of both hands, circling up into the sleeves of his leather jacket. The other had a new red and black tattoo gleaming boldly on his neck; roses entwined with barbed wire, petals falling through spikes.

And they were after _Wilson_. House's stomach churned. He watched as the two men approached their prey, circling round and coming to stand one on either side of Wilson. Wilson, reacting slowly, looked up with a delayed jump; first to his right, then to his left, finding six foot of grizzly muscle and fat on either side. The bartender had vanished down the far end of the bar and was standing with his back studiously towards them, polishing a glass.

House took a deep breath and stood up, moving slowly while his mind raced. As he came up to them, he heard one of the bears say, "...with us."

"Uh, I don't think so." Wilson's voice sounded casual, concealing an undercurrent of panic.

"I don't think you quite understand," Bear no. 1 said.

And Bear no. 2 put a hand out and grasped Wilson's arm.

And then a sharp _crack_ rang through the air as House's cane met the side of the Bear no 1's head. He fell, poleaxed, and before Bear no 2 could react, the cane came down hard against his skull too, and he let go of Wilson's arm and went down like a ninepin. Wilson stared dumbly at the two men suddenly stunned on the floor, and House standing, glowering, leaning against a chair for support.

"Wilson, let's get the fuck out of here," House said without preamble, and turned and headed towards the stairs. He didn't need to look back to know that Wilson was following. The barman still had his back to them, and as they crossed the floor, every eye in the bar was carefully averted in another direction.

Outside, House was relieved to see his bike was still where he'd left it at the curb down the street. He limped towards it as rapidly as possible.

"Come on," House said impatiently, holding the helmet out to Wilson. Wilson hesitated. "This is not the time for a bikes-are-death-traps lecture."

"It's not that," Wilson averted his eyes.

"What?" Realization dawned. "You can't sit down, can you?" House said incredulously. Rage stamped its feet in his gut. "You fucking _slut_, what the hell?"

"I was having a good time," Wilson said insistently.

"Well, if you want to have a good time ever again, I suggest you brace yourself and _get your ass on this bike!"_ House shouted, and the yell jolted Wilson into action; he pulled on the helmet and got on the bike, perching himself gingerly behind House. House screeched away and headed back to his hotel at top speed.

Somehow they arrived back at House's hotel in one piece. House parked in the lot and Wilson hopped off the bike as quickly as possible. He handed the helmet back to House.

House swung his leg off the bike and glared at Wilson. Feeling safe now from the bears in the bar, he vented spleen. "Wilson, you are beyond idiocy. What the fuck have you been up to?"

"I went to a club," Wilson mumbled. They started walking towards the hotel. "Met this guy... we went outside, he--"

"I don't want to know!" House felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. They arrived at the hotel entrance and House pushed Wilson through the revolving doors. Wilson, wrapped in his own stupor, barely seemed to register House's presence. House dragged Wilson through the hotel foyer, his cane in one hand and Wilson's sleeve in the other. The night receptionist had the temerity to look up at them, and House glared daggers at her. They took the elevator up to House's room.

House had no sooner shut the door behind them when Wilson lunged forward clumsily and kissed House on the mouth.

House smelled sweat on lips that felt dryer and coarser than usual, and tasted beer and cheap whiskey and--_goddamn_\--a trace of bodily fluids. Someone else's bodily fluids. Bile rose in House's mouth; he wrenched himself away and took a step backwards. Wilson lurched towards him again, and with a flash of anger, House pulled back his fist and punched Wilson on the jaw.

He had _never _done that before. Never, never, never, in all the years he'd known Wilson. Only in that hallucination, and that was why it had come as such a shock.

It wasn't a hard punch, but Wilson was caught off balance and his reflexes were slow. He toppled over backwards and landed on the floor with a crash. Looking a little stunned and dulled by the alcohol, he didn't immediately try and sit up, but simply lay there sprawled on his back.

House looked down at him, and it wasn't just reminiscent of the ghost of Christmas past; it was the same, with roles reversed. All that was missing was Mr. Zebalusky's empty pill bottle on the floor. And the vomit, though House was pretty sure from Wilson's pallor that would arrive soon.

He could see that Wilson was conscious and blinking at him. No harm done.

And suddenly House felt eerily calm. His brain had cleared and he could see with absolute clarity what he had to do, for his own sanity if nothing else.

House sat down on a chair and leaned his chin on the top of his cane. He gazed down at Wilson and said calmly, almost conversationally, "Wilson, I've had it with you."

Wilson's eyes rolled around to rest on House.

House went on, speaking chattily, "All these years of wives and girlfriends and boyfriends. I tell you, _I've had it_." His voice sharpened and rose. "You never--fucking--_learn!_ You repeat the same damn mistakes over and over again. And we just carry on like nothing's happened. Well--not any more. Enough of the déjà vu. I am fed up of being your dirty little secret fuckbuddy."

House stood up, looming very large over Wilson on the floor. Wilson's eyes tracked upwards.

"I," House said, slowly, deliberately, "want you to give up your pathetic identikit little brunette wives, and your ridiculous clone girlfriends, and your rough-and-tumble boyfriends. And if you can't do that, then you," House pointed his cane at Wilson, "are _never _fucking crawling into my bed again."

Wilson opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"You want to keep fucking me," House continued, picking up his duffel bag, "then you're _only _fucking me, and you'll damn well be proud of it."

House plucked his bunch of keys from a nearby table, and glanced around. That was everything he'd brought with him; he'd never unpacked his bag. He glanced down at Wilson, who was still looking dumbly up at House from his uncomfortable-looking position on the floor.

"I don't think you can do it," House said over his shoulder as he left the room.

He shut the door quietly behind him. As he left the building and felt the cool night air on his face, he felt curiously at peace.


	2. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having told Wilson to stop screwing around or get the hell out of his life, House takes sanctuary with an old ~~friend~~ acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A recurring OMC of mine pushed his way into the rest of this fic somehow. If you haven't met [Chris](http://archiveofourown.org/series/2500) before, all you really need to know is that he used to go out with Wilson.

Wilson became gradually aware of a hard flat surface under his back, and bright sunlight on the other side of his eyelids. Eventually, he realized he was awake, and lying on the floor of a room with the drapes open. He hauled himself into an upright position and the movement sent a steel gong clanging in his head. He sat clutching his head for a moment until the ringing started to fade, then opened his eyes. He was in a hotel room.

At first Wilson couldn't remember if House had been there, or if he had somehow found a hotel room himself. Then he began to remember the events of the previous evening, the string of bars and clubs, and each recollection made his stomach turn over. Fuck. This had been a bad one. And then that bar in the basement--and those two gorillas--and House appearing out of nowhere--oh God.

Suddenly Wilson remembered what had happened in this room--the attempted kiss, the look on House's face, the punch (House had _hit _him!--had that ever happened before?) and then House's ultimatum, every word returning with crystal clarity. And House had been serious--as deadly serious as Wilson could remember him being about anything.

And suddenly speaking to House became the most important thing in the world.

Wilson stood up, and waited until the room stopped rocking before he found his cellphone in his pocket. He flipped it open and dialed speed dial #1: House's cell. The call rolled immediately through to voicemail. Wilson left a message: "House, it's me, call me."

He sat down for a while before he felt competent to leave the hotel room. He checked out, then hailed a cab and went in search of his car; he had only the vaguest recollection of where he had left it the previous evening. The relief when he found it was considerable. He found some Advil in the glove compartment and gulped it down; then he set off on the drive back to Princeton.

He went straight to House's apartment. But House wasn't there; nor was his duffel bag with overnight stuff. Wilson stood in House's living room, right hand on right hip and left hand rubbing the back of his neck, as he tried to figure out where House would have gone on a Saturday morning. Wilson then went to the hospital, but after a hour walking through every possible room there that House might be, found no sign of him.

Eventually Wilson left House the same voicemail message as House had left with him the previous day ("House, where the fuck are you? Call me,"--but said in guilt, not in anger) and went and sat in his office, waiting and fretting.

 

* * *

  
Chris was sitting in his kitchen, reading the morning paper, enjoying the sun streaming through the window and sparkling on the waves in the distance, when he heard the buzz of a distant motorcycle. The noise grew louder; the bike was coming down the road towards his house. Chris raised his head to listen; he knew quite a few people with motorcycles and could usually tell who was who from the individual engines--but not this one.

The bike stopped outside, and Chris hopped off his stool and went through to the hallway, to peer out of the side window. He saw an orange crotch rocket and a tall figure just swinging his leg off the saddle. Grabbing his leg with both hands to swing it off the saddle. And a cane neatly tucked to one side in a special clamp. Christ almighty, of all people. House.

It had been quite some time since he'd seen House. It had been quite a long time since he'd seen Wilson, actually; not since that terrible period when Wilson's girlfriend had died in the bus accident, and House and Wilson had fallen out. Chris's friend Linus, a patient of Wilson's, occasionally went up to Princeton Plainsboro and came back chattering brightly with news; but Chris hadn't gone up there for quite some time. More than a year....

A sudden fear gripped his chest; was Wilson all right? There surely weren't many reasons for House to get in touch with him, let alone visit in person--they weren't friendly, and it was a two hour drive--

Chris opened the front door and strode swiftly outside. House had just removed his motorcycle helmet and was placing it on the handlebars. He looked up and saw Chris. Chris observed briefly that House looked terrible; gray and grizzled and even more scruffy than usual.

Priorities first. "Is Wilson okay?" Chris asked without preamble.

Blue eyes flickered. "He's fine." House's rasping voice rattled a little; it sounded like exhaustion. "At least, he's not hurt, he's not sick, and he's hasn't gotten married again either."

Visions of Wilson dead or ill receded, and Chris relaxed. He looked more carefully at House, and saw House was standing leaning heavily on the bike. His shoulders were drooping and his hands, gloved for the bike ride, were shaking ever so slightly.

"Are _you_ okay?" Chris asked, cautious, half-expecting a tongue-lashing for such a question.

"It's Wilson," House said, and his head dropped, and he appeared to be incapable of saying anything more.

Chris's brain raced over what this might mean, and he came swiftly to a decision. "Look, I was just on my way out. Why don't you come in and crash for a bit in the spare room. I'll be back in a few hours."

House inclined his head slightly; his expression didn't convey gratitude, but Chris thought he could see barely disguised relief. He stood aside to let House inside, and deliberately didn't fuss around or show House where the guest bedroom was. Instead he grabbed his jacket and keys, said, "See you later," and departed, leaving House to his own devices.

Chris headed off for a late lunch at one of his restaurants, and mulled the situation over. It was as if a large wounded animal had arrived at his door, seeking sanctuary; but a proud animal with teeth and claws, with the potential to turn nasty rather than face sympathy or pity.

He returned home in the late afternoon, walking through the house with some trepidation, not sure what he might find. The guest bedroom door was open a couple of inches, and Chris could see House crashed out on top of the covers, lying on his chest with his head to one side, breathing slowly and deeply.

Deciding the best thing to do was to act as if House was in the habit of dropping by, Chris stuck a couple of potatoes in the oven and went off to make some phone calls. He usually went to his club on Saturday nights, so he called his manager Bob to say he probably wouldn't be in. Then he called his boyfriend Matt to say he had to entertain an old friend who had turned up unexpectedly. (It stuck in the craw to describe House a friend, but how else to explain?) Matt groaned and grumbled and tried to invite himself along, but Chris was firm in opposing that.

He then settled down in the kitchen to continue preparing dinner. By the time House wandered in an hour later, Chris had put a couple of steaks aside to marinate, and chopped several large piles of onions, tomatoes and peppers.

House still looked like crap, with deep lines across his forehead and under his eyes, but he was standing straighter and walking more easily than before.

"Hey," Chris said cautiously, as House sat down at the kitchen table.

"How's the boyfriend?" House asked. "You must have been going out what, a couple of years now?"

House was not making small talk; he was avoiding the Wilson-shaped elephant in the room. Chris nodded, not particularly wanting to discuss Matt with House. "A bit less. He's fine."

"He doesn't live here," House flicked a hand, encompassing the room.

"No. He's got an apartment a couple of miles down the coast, south." Chris hesitated, and added, "I would have seen him tonight, but I told him it wasn't convenient, as an old Princeton buddy had turned up unexpectedly, was in the area and might stay for a night."

House snorted a little at the word _buddy_, but nodded in acknowledgment of Chris's invitation; he could stay the night. House drummed his fingers on the table. "You hear much from Wilson these days?"

"We e-mail back and forth sometimes, news and so on, every few months maybe," Chris explained. "And I hear some stuff from Linus. Haven't actually seen Wilson for a while, though. Not since he dropped by a year or so ago, when the girlfriend died in the bus crash?..."

House nodded, and looked away. Chris thought maybe House did want to talk, but just couldn't bring himself to. Chris got up and turned the grill on, ready for the steaks, and put a pan on the burner to fry the vegetables. He'd just tipped the onions into the hot oil, when a phone shrilled loudly; _Dancing Queen_.

"Wilson," House said, and Chris glanced around to see House reach in his pocket and fish out a cellphone. House sighed, flipped the phone open and spoke. "Fuck off and leave me alone."

The oven timer rang out at that moment to signal the potatoes were done, meaning Chris couldn't make out what Wilson was saying. But he could hear Wilson's voice, loud and alarmed, down the phone.

House listened for a few seconds and then cut in. "Yes, I'm fine. I've just gone away for a day or two. I'll be back at work on Monday." On the other end of the line, Wilson tried to speak again, but House spoke loudly above the noise from the oven. "I'm going to hang--up--_now_." He snapped the phone shut.

Chris turned the oven off and poked at the frying pan, wondering what to say, what on earth had happened, when unexpectedly House spoke.

"The last few days have all gone to hell in a handbasket."

Breakthrough. Chris carefully kept his attention on the stove, not looking at House. "Yeah?"

And after a minute, House actually went on. "I told him he had to stop fucking other people or get the fuck out of my life."

My God, this was massive. A flame leaped up from the pan; Chris sizzled the onions and valiantly resisted the temptation to look round at House.

"The idiot split up with his latest girlfriend--small brunette with big knockers and no brain." House's voice rose slightly. He hesitated, apparently struggling to find words, then went on. "Went on a bender by himself, God only knows what he got up to. Except that getting fucked up the ass by a stranger in a club definitely featured. When I found him, two Neanderthal bikers in a bar had noticed his pretty little ass--they were about to pick him up--I managed to get him out--"

House's voice trailed away. Chris breathed gently, able to fill in the gaps. He understood now why House had come here, even though they'd never gotten along. Chris knew this side of Wilson, was one of the few people in the whole world who House could tell what had happened.

"I need some air," House said abruptly, and Chris glanced around to see House get up and leave the room. A minute later he watched House walk down towards the beach and drop down on a deckchair, looking out to sea.

Chris finished cooking, and took a plateful out to House, who actually grunted a _thanks_.

House stayed outside for the rest of the evening, sitting on the deckchair, spinning a yo-yo. Periodically Chris looked out, and went out at one point to pick up the plate (House had eaten everything; Chris suspected it was the first meal he'd had all day). Eventually Chris went out to say he was going to bed and House should just come in when he wanted.

House nodded. Chris stuck his hands in his pockets and wondered whether to say something, trying to figure out if House wanted to talk or had just needed to vent. House avoided meeting his eye though, and Chris decided discretion was the better part of valor at the moment. He left House by himself and went off to bed.

* * *

  
Next morning was a Sunday. Chris got up late, wondering if his unexpected house guest might have left in the night. But no; the guest room door was closed and House's motorcycle was still outside. Chris was drinking coffee in the kitchen when he heard movement; House getting up and heading towards the bathroom. A few minutes later the shower came on. Chris put some more coffee on and was wondering what to do for breakfast, when the doorbell rang.

There was Wilson on the doorstep. He looked nervous, exhausted, and scruffy.

Chris was initially surprised to see him, then decided actually it wasn't remotely surprising that Wilson had followed an invisible thread on a two hour journey to find a person House didn't even get on with, to find House.

"Hey, Chris," Wilson said timidly.

"Hey, Wilson. Come in," Chris said, his voice warm. Wilson started to shake his head, so Chris turned and walked into the house to forestall any argument. A minute later Wilson followed Chris inside, into the kitchen.

"I don't want to intrude..." Wilson said awkwardly.

"You're not. I was just making coffee, want some?"

"Actually, coffee sounds fantastic," Wilson admitted, and sat down at the kitchen table. Chris poured him a mug.

"Place looks great," Wilson said, looking around. "How's Linus? He came for a check-up a few months ago, and he mentioned he was going on vacation."

"He and Raul have gone to Australia for a couple of months," Chris explained. "I got an e-card of a kangaroo the other day, he's fine, having a great time."

"I'm glad to hear it. And how's Matt?" Wilson asked, showing impeccable recall. "You must have been going out what, more than a year now?"

"That's right. It's going well," Chris nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it," Wilson said sincerely.

There was a pause, then Chris said, "He's in the shower."

They both knew he wasn't talking about Matt.

Wilson exhaled a long breath and his shoulders slumped. "I saw his bike outside... Did he stay the night?"

Chris nodded.

"Did he tell you... what's happened the last few days?"

Chris nodded.

"I've been such a fool," Wilson said, looking at his coffee mug.

Chris hesitated, suddenly aware he hadn't heard the shower running for the last few minutes. He stood up and said, "I was about to make breakfast, do you want some?" and moved towards the stove.

Then came the sound of tuneful, cheerful humming, and a minute later House walked in the kitchen door, tapping his cane.

He looked good--infinitely better than the day before. He was fully dressed in a loud T-shirt, black jeans and vibrant sneakers; his face was pink and well-scrubbed, and his hair slightly damp from the shower.

He stopped dead at the sight of Wilson sitting at the kitchen table, cradling a cup of coffee. There was silence for a minute.

As Chris racked his brains for a suitable ice-breaker, House said accusingly, "How did you know I was here?" And although he was addressing Wilson, he was looking at Chris. Chris gestured in annoyance; _Nothing to do with me_.

"I recognized the oven timer alarm, I heard it on the phone last night," Wilson explained.

Chris was impressed. House rolled his eyes, and said, "Wilson, you complete saddo. I know you're familiar with this kitchen, but _honestly!_"

"Look, its such a beautiful morning," Chris said firmly. "The two of you should go out to the beach."

Neither of them moved.

"Go on!" Chris said fiercely, and House suddenly turned and moved towards the door as swiftly as he could. Chris shoved a mug of coffee into his hand as he passed. Wilson grabbed his own coffee and followed.

* * *

  
House strode on ahead, and Wilson found himself struggling to keep up, even though the cane didn't function well on the dry sand. House arrived at a deckchair and sat down, taking a swig from the coffee mug.

Wilson perched on a nearby rock and cradled his own mug in his hands. He waited for House to speak first, but after a minute it became clear that House would happily have sat ignoring him all day, and Wilson said haltingly, "I'm sorry. House... I'm really sorry."

He was aware how pitifully inadequate it sounded.

House glanced up at the sky, then fished a pair of sunglasses out of his jeans pocket and slipped them on. "Do you even remember what happened?"

Wilson winced at the level of cynicism in House's voice. "I remember. I remember everything." Wilson felt his cheeks go hot. He shut his eyes briefly and saw disco lights, heard _YMCA _thumping in the background, a man--God, he'd never even asked his name--taking his hand and leading him outside, a concrete passageway...

"Do you remember what I said to you?" House's voice was hard and cold now.

"Yes. Yes." Wilson opened his eyes and squinted in the sunlight. "House, I know you're not going to believe me, but I won't do it again. Um, fuck around with other people, I mean. And if you really want, uh, _commitment,_ I can do that. I really can."

"I don't believe you." House's voice was flat.

"I mean it!"

"Of course you mean it. But I don't think you can do it. I've seen it happen too many times." House stared out to sea."I think I'll stay a few days, take some vacation."

Wilson was surprised. "Stay... here?"

"Until Chris gets fed up with me enough to throw me out, probably in about ten minutes' time. In which case I'll just find a hotel by the sea somewhere."

"House..." Wilson's voice trailed away, and returned with a note of despair. "What can I do, what can I say, to make you believe me?"

"Probably nothing," House's tone was dull. "You've never been able to keep it in your pants, not in all the years I've known you. I guess I shouldn't have rescued you from those bikers in the bar. Should've just let them kidnap you and fuck you into oblivion, you might've enjoyed it."

Wilson went very quiet for a minute, and then said, "If that's what you think of me, I'm surprised you want to be with me at all."

The knife was already in, but House's next comment made it twist and tear at Wilson's heart. "I guess right now I don't."

"Then I guess I've wasted my trip," Wilson managed to say before his throat choked up and blocked completely, and he stood up and walked away.

* * *

  
Chris was waiting in the kitchen when Wilson reappeared, chalk white and saucer-eyed.

"House says he might stay here for a few days," Wilson spoke swiftly. "Is that OK? Please?"

The prospect of House staying for a few more hours, let alone days, did not enthrall Chris. But Wilson looked fragile and desperate, and Chris couldn't say no. "Um, sure. If he wants to."

Wilson looked relieved. "You'll keep an eye on him, won't you? Call me if you need to."

Chris would have liked nothing better than to have Wilson linger, but Wilson was clearly on the verge of breakdown and set on leaving immediately. So Chris just said awkwardly, "Sure," and watched as Wilson drove away.

House stayed down on the beach for a while, then came in for breakfast. Chris said as off-handedly as he could that the guest room was free if House wanted to stay for a bit, and House merely nodded graciously, as if it was his right.


	3. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House returns home, although not without causing some havoc beforehand. Wilson's been busy in his absence.

  
House was, of course, the house guest from hell. Chris had known this would be the case, but this didn't actually help. It took House all of two hours on the Sunday afternoon to borrow the Harley without asking. Afterwards he was glowing from the ride and gabbling enthusiastically about the bike, and the torrent of fury that Chris threw at him was water off a duck's back.

Chris overheard House negotiate a week's vacation leave from Cuddy; he could hardly not hear it, as House had her on speakerphone in the kitchen while Chris was making breakfast on the Monday morning. Cuddy was obviously pissed at House for calling only on the day, and ended up saying, "And who I am I going to get to cover your clinic duty at this short notice?"

"Oh, Wilson's quite happy to do that," House said without a beat.

Auditors were combing accounts at the club, so Chris had to work and House was left to his own devices. Chris reluctantly let House borrow the Harley because it seemed easier than arguing about it (and he suspected that House would find a way to take it anyway, unless Chris actually chained himself to it). House stuck his cane in his backpack and drove off triumphantly.

As far as Chris could make out, House spent the next few days alternating between flying around the coastal roads on the Harley, sleeping on the beach, and eating his way through the contents of Chris's kitchen cupboards. When House started whining about a shortage of food on the Wednesday, Chris told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted gourmet cooking he should hurry up and make up with Wilson. That actually served to shut House up for a bit, although did not unfortunately lead to him going out and buying any food himself.

Chris dropped Wilson a brief e-mail each day to assure him that House was still around and hadn't done himself any harm. Wilson sent back equally brief and grateful replies.

 

* * *

  
On Thursday afternoon, Chris got a call from the local ER to say a Dr. Gregory House had been admitted after a motorcycle accident. Chris's first thought was _Wilson's gonna kill me! _He ground his teeth and drove up to the ER, to find House was apparently fine, although he had a graze on his forehead and the most enormous bandage on his shoulder.

"What the hell happened?" Chris demanded, without a greeting.

"Came off on a corner. Nobody else anywhere near. Fucking busybody passer-by called 911, no need." House sounded righteously indignant. "It's just a bruise."

"Never mind _you_," Chris said brutally. "What about the bike?"

"Ah, well." House avoided his eye. "The front wheel got a bit bent."

The cane and the bandage combined made House look so bloody and battered that even Chris couldn't quite bring himself to hit him. Though he was sorely tempted. "You are so paying for this."

"I thought you liked things bent," House snapped. "Send the bill to Wilson. I'll only borrow the money off him and not pay him back."

Chris wondered for the umpteenth time why on earth Wilson put up with House.

* * *

  
Chris steeled himself that evening to call Wilson and tell him about the accident. Wilson listened in silence, then demanded, "He's definitely not hurt?"

"No. He's got this big bandage on his shoulder which kind of restricts movement, but he's fine."

Wilson's voice rose. "Why did you let him on that bike anyway? You of all people know how lethal it can be!"

That hurt, but Chris was more upset than angry. He remembered that Wilson too had lost someone he'd loved in a road accident. "Like anyone can stop him doing whatever the hell he wants to do, all the time."

"I should have been there. I should have stayed, I shouldn't have come back to work--"

This was ridiculous. "You can't always be there for him. Especially when he's pushed you away himself."

"No. You're wrong. When he's pushed me away is _exactly _when I should be there. It means he's about to hit the self-destruct button."

Chris breathed an exasperated sigh. "Wilson, I am doing my best but I am not you and I am not going to react like you do. He's fine. Whereas the Harley needs thousands of dollars worth of repair! Alright?"

"Fine," Wilson snapped. Apparently realizing he'd sounded very short, Wilson went on in a more pacifying tone, "So what's he up to now?"

"Not much. But we're going to have a fun time tonight." Chris's tone was deeply ironic. "Matt's coming to dinner. He expressed an interest in meeting my old Princeton buddy and I couldn't put it off any longer. I thought House would refuse and that would get me off the hook, but instead he seems surprisingly keen."

"Really." Wilson sounded amused now. "Then watch out. He's up to something. I guarantee it!"

* * *

  
By the time Matt arrived for dinner that evening, Chris was a nervous wreck, and would have definitely started smoking again for the first time in several years had there been even an ounce of tobacco in the house. He settled for a shot of whiskey surreptitiously in the kitchen beforehand instead. House meanwhile was humming and relaxed.

Chris did brief introductions, and the three of them sat in the living room with beer. Chris found himself drinking his rather too quickly from the start.

"So, you two lovebirds been going out long?" House swilled beer around in his glass, taking it slow.

"Couple of years now, nearly. I keep on telling him we should get one of those civil union things, make it all legal," Matt said jovially. "Perhaps you can help me persuade him."

Chris smiled, faintly embarrassed.

House's eyes narrowed so far they became mere slits of blue. He didn't reply, but asked instead, "And what do you do for a living, Matt?"

He put a faint humorous stress on _Matt. _Chris started to get an inkling that House really was planning on some serious baiting.

"I'm a boat engineer." Matt downed half his beer in a gulp.

"Yeah?" House raised an eyebrow. "Messing about on the river all day?"

"I fix boats when they're broken, maintain them, rent them out." Matt spread out his hands. "That's how we met. Summer before last, I got a job in the boatyard just up the coast."

"You have a boat, of course," House nodded at Chris.

"A share in one," Chris clarified.

"And what about you, House?" Matt asked. "What do you do?"

"House is a doctor," Chris said, before House could claim to be a magician or a weightlifter or window cleaner. House cast Chris a slightly reproachful look.

"A doctor?" Matt snorted in amusement. "Fucking great advertisement for the medical profession you are, with a crippled leg and a whacking great bandage on your shoulder."

Matt had always been something of a straight talker. Chris shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

House's eyes gleamed. "What an interesting idea. Only people with no disabilities should be allowed to become doctors. And quite right too. You could stand for Congress on a platform like that, actually. I can see the placards now: _Cripples Out! Disabled Doctors, no thanks! _You can form a party--"

"You think you're smart, huh?" Matt said, hostile now, and Chris really winced. "How come you two know each other?"

"House is a friend of Wilson's," Chris said hastily, fearing House was about to invent something outrageous. Chris had told Matt a bit about Wilson, his last serious relationship.

"Doctor pals, eh?" Matt drank the other half of his beer.

"That's right. You know he's an oncologist? Well, I specialize in diagnostics." House leaned back in his chair and stared at Matt. "But it doesn't take any special skills or training to diagnose you as a grade A gold digging bastard."

Chris spluttered into his drink.

Matt put his empty glass down, leaned forward and glared at House. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I _mean_, you're obviously a tinpot navvy on the lookout to screw a rich boat-owning lonely idiot in search of some male company," House stated. "That's a flashy car you drove up in; you don't buy that on a boat mechanic's salary. And you live in one of these fancy beachfront apartment blocks, don't you? I drove down to take a look the other day. No way can you afford the rent on that unless it comes out of someone else's bank account. You're nothing but a freeloading bloodsucking son-of-a-bitch-- "

Matt jumped to his feet while House was talking and pulled back a fist to take a swing.

Chris had a sudden vision of Wilson's reaction if he found out House had not only had an accident on Chris's motorcycle, but also been beaten up by Chris's boyfriend. He leaped up just in time to grab Matt's arm.

Matt shook him off, shouted, "I didn't come here to be fucking insulted!" and stormed out.

Chris hesitated, wondering whether to go after him. He hesitated a little too long, though; there came the slam of a car door and the sound of an engine starting, then the car roared away. Chris turned to House, who was sitting looking stern and resolutely unrepentant.

"House--" Chris began, furious.

"He's a gold digger. He's only after your money." House spoke in no uncertain terms. "He's with you for the sports car and the swanky apartment he's conned out of you. He wants the nice meals he can eat for free in your restaurants and the complimentary drinks at your club. And the sex he probably gets from other men behind your back, in return for access to your private bar, I wouldn't wonder."

"House, you're talking absolute shit!"

"Am I?" House fixed Chris with a penetrating eye. "He tried to talk you into putting him into your will last year, didn't he? I found the papers in your desk drawer--"

"You _what?!"_

"--but you changed your mind at the last moment. Thank fuck for that, or you might have vanished off the side of your boat next time the two of you were out at sea."

Chris was stunned into silence.

"Now he's trying to guilt you into a civil union," House hammered on remorselessly. "You do that, you'll end up in a sticky divorce in six months time where he will screw you for every last cent he can get." He paused, looked carefully at Chris's face, and drove the final nail into the coffin. "You used to have a photograph of Edward in a frame in here, didn't you?" House waved an arm towards a bookcase. "What happened to it?"

Chris knew exactly what photograph House was talking about. It was the best picture Chris had of Edward, showing him clutching a newspaper to his chest and smiling self-consciously, his glasses slid a little way down his nose. "I took it down. Matt didn't like seeing it--"

"It's facedown at the back of your closet." House's voice cut through the air like a knife through butter.

"You've been poking around in my closet?" Chris spluttered, but by now he was past being angry or surprised at anything, as House's words struck chords deep in his soul. "Look, it's perfectly reasonable of Matt not to want to have to look at it all the time."

"Did Wilson ever ask you to do anything like that?" House asked shrewdly, and Chris knew House was right. House went on, a trifle melodramatic, "Matt the master manipulator made you take down the only reminder you had of the love of your life, who died so tragically. And as if to strain the metaphor, had him stuck him in a closet."

Chris breathed heavily. "Get the fuck out of my house."

House regarded Chris through speculative eyes and said, "I'll leave right now if you tell me I'm wrong."

Instead, Chris turned blindly and walked out of the house himself.

* * *

  
A while later, House came out and joined Chris outside on the beach. Chris had taken the deckchair; House perched on the rock nearby, and sat there silently for a few minutes.

"It wasn't just the photo," Chris said presently.

House raised an eyebrow and waited.

"He wanted me to stop going out to the tree. The memorial tree I planted with Edward's ashes... I don't even go out there that much any more, but there are some days I just do, anniversaries, that kind of thing. He's always kicked up a fuss." Chris heard his voice shake slightly.

"He's a bastard," House said simply.

"Linus has never liked him either." Chris ran a hand over his face. "It was Linus who stopped me changing my will at the last minute a year ago."

House nodded in comprehension. "He's one of your executors."

"Yeah. What else did you read in my desk drawers?" Chris was fast realizing that House hadn't just spent the last few days driving around, eating, and sleeping after all.

"Well, I wasn't guessing about the car and the apartment," House admitted.

Chris sighed. "So you come stay with me, eat all my food, wreck my bike, put yourself in hospital making Wilson furious with me, poke your nose into my affairs and then break up my relationship of the last two years. And I guess I'm supposed to thank you."

"No thanks required," House said magnanimously, but his attention had been caught. "Wilson's furious with you?"

"I fell down on the House baby-sitting front," Chris said tightly. "He thinks you're being self-destructive."

"He's just in mother hen mode." House was dismissive.

Somehow this served to anger Chris. "House, you need to get your head out of your ass and realize that Wilson really cares about you, and he's fucking petrified you're going to stick your fingers in an electric socket or something right now."

"He'd find comfort soon enough elsewhere if I did," House struck back.

And Chris stared in surprise, that House could see Chris's own life and personal problems so readily, and yet fail so completely to understand his own. Chris didn't want to do it, but felt he had to try and explain, however awkward it was. "House, he--he _loves_ you. He always has."

"He's got a funny fucking way of showing it then, hasn't he?" House's voice was harsh, but Chris thought he could hear an ever so slight quiver in House's voice.

And then, the miracle: House asked for an opinion. "You know what he's like. Do you think--do you _really_ think--that he can stop fucking other people if he tries?"

"If it's that or lose you, then yes. Yes, I think he can. I think he will." Chris hesitated, and added pointedly, "You've never actually asked him to before."

House stood up, wheeled around and headed back towards the house.

Chris stayed in the deckchair looking out to sea for quite a long time after nightfall. He supposed he should have been more upset, but actually, he was more relieved than anything.

* * *

  
House traveled home the following day, leaving early in the morning before Chris got up. House didn't feel the need to leave a note of thanks: after all, he'd saved Chris from an expensive divorce down the line. And that would more than cover the Harley repair, too, so basically they were even.

On Monday he arrived back at Princeton Plainsboro to spy Wilson in a ward from afar, doing his rounds while looking as exhausted and haggard as House had ever seen him. And that was saying something. He found that Taub, Thirteen and Kutner had been helping out in oncology while he'd been away (Foreman seemed to have gone AWOL), and he told them in an off-handed way that they might as well stay there until they got a case.

He spent the morning catching up on spam e-mails in his office, before taking a deep breath and heading next door. Wilson was at his desk, writing painstakingly in a file with his crabby left-handed scrawl. House strolled in and plumped himself down opposite.

"Hey," Wilson said, tentative, but sounding genuinely pleased to see him. "Did you have a nice week off?"

"Chris has been reporting back to you," House rebuked. "You probably know what happened even better than I do."

Wilson shrugged a little. "Yes, I heard he broke up with Matt thanks to you. Amazingly, he seems to think you did him a favor." He looked closely at House, and his brown eyes shone with sudden concern. "The bike accident. Your shoulder looks stiff--"

"It's nothing," House said automatically. "Just a bruise."

Wilson was on his feet and round the side of the desk. "Let me see."

House pulled a face, but Wilson had on his _I'm your doctor too _expression and it didn't seem worth actually fighting over. Reluctantly House unbuttoned the heavy cotton shirt he was wearing, and shrugged it off his shoulder. He knew it was just a bruise, albeit a huge one which was currently turning a cavernous shade of purple-black.

"You were lucky," Wilson said, unable to keep a scolding tone out of his voice as he ran a hand carefully over House's shoulder. "You could've killed yourself..."

And suddenly Wilson wasn't a physician with a patient any more, but a lover tracing the lines along House's bicep. The change in Wilson's touch from light to tender was barely detectable, but House felt it as a shudder down his spine. He pulled away angrily, and said, "When you've quite finished feeling me up, _Doctor _Wilson..."

"House..." Wilson said, and his tone was strangled. "There's something I want to tell you."

"Fuck off." House pulled on his shirt and buttoned it up swiftly, standing up.

"I told my brother," Wilson said, suddenly loud and clear. "About us, I mean."

House stopped absolutely dead on the spot, pausing right in the middle of fastening a cuff button. "Told him what?"

"That... we've been in a relationship, a physical relationship, for years. As long as we've known each other. On and off." Wilson shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "I told him we _fuck_, alright? "

"We're talking about Jonathan? Your fucked up homophobic alcoholic bad-tempered brother?" House demanded.

"Well, I've only got the one, haven't I?" Wilson said, with a sad ghost of a smile. House knew that with every year that passed with no news of David, Wilson resigned himself increasingly to the idea that he must be dead. "I went up to Trenton to see him over the weekend. Didn't want to do it over the phone."

"What did he say?" House asked, incredulous.

"He blustered a lot. Refused to believe me at first. Then called me a faggot and told me I was out of my fucking mind. Cried a few tears of rage and tried to convince himself, and me, that it was just a phase. _'A twenty year phase',_ I said, _'and it's not stopping now...'_ I hope." Wilson met House's eye: House held the gaze. Wilson continued, "Then he got angry and started saying it made a lot of sense, he'd always suspected... eventually he tossed me out of the house, and said if I ever wanted to see my nieces again, I'd better not tell Mom or Dad or anyone else in the family."

"Christ." House was stunned.

Wilson shrugged. "Actually, I think it could have been worse. And I will tell Mom, and Dad. I just want to give Jon a bit of time to get used to the idea first."

"He hit you," House said, suddenly noticing that Wilson was also moving rather awkwardly, holding his left shoulder stiffly. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

"Just a bruise," Wilson echoed House. "No harm done. He'd had a few drinks."

"Always with the excuses for him!" House said, with a sudden flare of anger at Jonathan for hitting Wilson, and at himself for not spotting it the minute he'd walked in the room.

Wilson sighed and moved around to sit down again at his desk. "Look, I did it, okay? And I also told him I was happy when I'm with you, and committed to you, and proud of it, even. And it was _not_ fucking easy. And you don't have any difficult intolerant family members to tell since your dad died, so just give me a break." He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

House left Wilson's office silently, and didn't realize he hadn't done up his cuffs for a good half hour afterwards.

* * *

  
That evening House took a deep breath and went to Wilson's apartment. He didn't often go there: it had been Amber's apartment before, and House never felt entirely comfortable there. Wilson let him in, looking pleased and surprised.

House waited for the door to close, then said, "Jimmy Wilson, still able to surprise me, after all this time. That took balls."

Wilson blushed faintly and dipped his eyes. "One thing I forgot to mention before. Jon blames you for everything, of course, and is _definitely_ going to kill you."

"I can't wait." They headed into the living room. House took off his jacket, shrugging it off his bad shoulder, and slung it on the back of the couch.

"Show me your shoulder," House directed. "I never got to see it earlier."

"Think I'm hiding some terrible wound?" Wilson said wryly. House watched through sharpening blue eyes as Wilson slipped off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. House's own doctoral instincts then took over and he ran a professional hand over Wilson's shoulder, across a bruise remarkably similar in size and shape to his own, although newer and redder. More sensitive too; Wilson sucked in his breath a little as House's fingertips probed, even though the touch was feather light.

"How's _your _shoulder?" Wilson asked tentatively.

House grinned a little. "Wanna see?" he asked, and pulled his T-shirt off, over his head.

This time there was no ambiguity. House turned his bare shoulder towards Wilson and arched his neck; Wilson stroked House's shoulderblade, then moved his hand gently across to touch House's neck. House sighed a little, Wilson leaned forward and House closed the gap.

It was a long, sweet kiss; gentle on both sides and rich with years of remembered passion. Then House pulled back to say, "New ground rules."

"Uh?" Wilson opened his eyes. House fixed him in a steely glare.

"No fucking other men. _Or_ women. And that's a deal breaker."

"I promise," Wilson said sincerely.

And this time, House believed not only that Wilson meant it, but that he might actually be able to manage it.

END 


End file.
